USA. A grocery register. The cashier held up my crackers and said "oh, these are SO good," and I understood that my entire basket was being judged. I had not known checkout was an evaluation. No one tells you. The items ride the belt one by one, and the magistrate lifts each, and some receive a verdict. "These chips? SO good." Approval. My heart rose. "Oh, I love this salsa." Two for two. I stood straighter. Then she scanned my mustard in silence. Silence. No comment. The mustard passed unjudged, which is worse than condemned. I stared at it in the bag. What did I not know? Who buys the correct mustard? Where do they learn? "And the mustard?" I asked. I could not stop myself. "...it's fine." Fine. In my land, when the tea master calls your tea "fine," you train for another decade. I will train. The man behind me saw my face. "She's just makin' conversation, man." Conversation. Sir. She has tasted EVERYTHING. She stands at the gate of the food and watches what ten thousand households carry home, and she has formed views, and for a few seconds those views are aimed at your basket. There is no more qualified judge in this nation. The judges of my land studied twenty years. She studies forty hours a week, scanner in hand. In Japan, the cashier would sooner faint than comment on your groceries. Here, the verdicts are free. A man does not shop to fill a basket. He shops to hear, at the gate, that he chose well. I confess I now select one item each week purely to earn her praise. This week: the crackers again. "These are SO good," she said. I know. I know.